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Siddhartha ventures out


Arvind the Advaitin, who sometimes
writes poetry, writes a post about his
300K a-year-friend
who lives on acreage in California, probably
somewhere on the coast, maybe even the Bay;
he says his friend's gardener looks sickly on $25
(an hour? a day?). I ask why
he mentions it, and then send him a
picture of river-front property in Kolkata,

You have seen poverty, right?
I wondered.

Don, my sometimes-poet friend, (but always
activistic and altruistic bee pollinating the seeds
of compassion) sends me pictures
of the homeless sleeping on downtown Cleveland streets
(I was a Realtor once and know the value of lakefront
properties and per-foot office space.)

I try to balance the images in my head. I suppose
if I had to I'd know how to make sense of it. Things
are so by popular design, but I tell you no lies
God didn't create poverty in a world of riches
bestowed just for being alive...


Did you ever ask if your own children
are watching
do you know they learn best by
example, no matter what your holy books say?
Even if some pages are dog-eared, even if you've
thrown other pages away.


Where's the remote? I don't like being tuned in to
places that are never in the heart.


Siddharta leaves and Buddha sits in his place.



Why infuse and suffer
a thousand
identities to wear and
suffocate in shrouds
long before the body dies?


Dirt. The world is full of dirt
and the chaff blows away.

Winter comes in palaces. Winter
comes homeless and stays.


Love is the only sacrifice
worth repetition...opens
the heart that opens the fist.

Editing stage: 


I. love. it. I'll have to read it again, but the simplicity of the lines, honesty of images, and the tempo all grab me, pull me towards an ache.


J.A. Fisher

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